Vol. 27 - I Miss My Wife

On being together.

In bed a few nights ago, while the four-year-old slept between us, my hand glanced Emily’s. The fleeting moment of skin-on-skin sent a mid-night thrill through me and, for an all-too-brief moment, I remembered what it was like to sleep next to my wife.

But the thrill quickly subsided, replaced by a bit of longing.

Because just as soon as her hand touched mine, I realized that these two things (these two beautiful, amazing, I-wouldn’t-trade-them-for-the-world things) have been wedged in between us, both metaphorically and physically, for the last four-plus years.

It’s an amazing and fantastic journey to have kids and one that has enriched my life in ways I never could have imagined.

It’s also made my bond with and my relationship to my wife infinitely stronger. We’re a better couple than we were before we had kids and, if I might take a moment to brag, we were a pretty great couple back then, too.

But one thing is certain and I realized it in the middle of the night when I was awoken by the slightest physical contact: I really, really miss my wife.

I married Emily because I love her unbridled joy, the enthusiasm with with she approaches the world, her gentle and understanding nature, the way she loves exactly who I am, never asking me to change a thing (except the cigarettes, a habit I’ve long since kicked), and how supportive she is of just about everyone she knows.

But most of all, I married Emily because I like her. I like hanging out with her. I like hanging out with her more than anyone I’ve ever hung out with.

Now, with two kids, we don’t get to do that too much anymore.

And I don’t mean going to dinner or out for a drink. That was never our scene, even before we had kids.

Sure, we spend a lot of time together. As we both work from home, we spend almost every waking moment together. But right now, almost everything we do is transactional.

That will change with time, no doubt. But right now, I can’t remember the last time Emily and I had a real conversation or held each other’s hand or, as I was reminded the other night, slept next to each other.

Over the years, a few friends have asked me for relationship advice (generally inadvisable, I promise).

They’ve been on the precipice of marriage or happily staring into the teeth of a new relationship that shows some promise. They see Emily and me, a dozen years into a relationship which we both very much want to be in, which we both celebrate publicly, and think we might have some insight to whatever the secret might be.

I assure them we don’t know any secret. We just work hard on our relationship and we welcome compromise as often as possible. I tell them about our fights, which we liken to explosions (fast and loud and over as quick as they started), and that our years together haven’t been without their trials.

I tell them that I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, that no one does, that we’re all just making it up and figuring it out as we go along. I tell them to be wary of anyone who gives anyone else relationship advice, solicited or otherwise.

But one thing I do tell them, every time, is how above all, you have to like your partner.

Sure, you should love them. And you should want to fuck them. And you should want to make them happy. But above all, you have to like them. It’s imperative. Because if you don’t like them, you can’t love them and you won’t want to fuck them and their happiness won’t be much of your concern.

I like Emily. I like her more than I love her (and I love her more than almost anything). I like hanging out with her. I like being her husband. I like her. A lot.

More than anything else, she’s my buddy. My pal. My best friend. My confidant. My homie. My solace.

But with two kids wedged between us, both metaphorically and physically, each requiring endless amounts of attention, time, and energy, it’s hard to focus on spending time with my buddy.

And even though we’re rarely more than twenty feet apart at any given point in our day, I miss Emily in a way I’ve never missed her before.